


But People Don't

by preblematic



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Falling In Love, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preblematic/pseuds/preblematic
Summary: Frank doesn’t understand whyhehas to keep it in his pants when he canhearRay and Gerard going at it in the back of the van.





	But People Don't

    The first time it happens is a shock, as with a lot of first times. Thinking back on it later, Frank realizes that he really should’ve seen it coming. When you live in a van with four other dudes, you’re bound to catch one of them horizontally tangoing at some point. Frank just didn’t expect to catch three of them all at once, but even that seems predictable when he looks back.

    It’s the middle of a deep winter run down and back up part of the east coast when he first catches them. All six feet of Ray is sprawled half on and half off the middle bench seat of the van. He’s still wearing the ridiculously plush winter coat that was the gift his parents gave him for their first tour, but the fucking too-fancy-for-this-bullshit fur lined hood is pushed down so that his impressive hair is free. His pants are pulled down past his ass and his legs spread wide around the body between them. The body is Gerard, wrapped in jeans and a hoodie and another, bigger hoodie and still wearing his fucking fingerless gloves while he jacks Ray off and sucks him.

    “What the fuck, guys?” Frank demands. “The van? What the hell?” He throws his hands in the air then drops them again, the bag of food that he’s holding in one hand makes a soft crinkling noise as it hits his thigh. Ray spares an apologetic glance his way, then curses softly and drops his head back against the seat. Gerard hasn’t _stopped._ He’s bobbing his head eagerly as Ray falls apart above it, and Frank can't help watching Ray’s face while it happens.

    “It was either this or the next restroom we find--”

    “OhJesusfuckingChrist,” Frank yelps when Mikey’s voice comes from the passenger seat. Frank hadn’t noticed the younger Way brother. He’s wearing just one hoodie over a T-shirt, which doesn’t make any sense at all because he has the least insulation out of all of them. That’s not the strangest thing though, the strangest thing is that Mikey is kneeling in the front seat of the van watching his _big brother_ suck off their lead guitarist. Mikey continues talking like he hadn’t noticed Frank’s outburst.

    “---and Gee doesn’t like the concrete tile, says it hurts his knees. ‘Course I call him an old man ‘cause that’s my job as his little brother, y’know? But I agree, man, kneeling on concrete’s totally not worth it, not even for a good dick.” Mikey’s voice is hitching and gasping in odd places, and when Frank shifts his view he can see that Mikey’s hand is down the front of his own pants, slowly getting himself off to his b _rother_ giving head.

    “One of you motherfuckers better tell me what the hell is happening right now,” Frank says.

   “Gee’s sucking Ray off,” Mikey speaks again. It makes sense since he’s the most unoccupied one. He gasps once and pants quietly before saying,” Thought that much was obvious.”

    “Why the fuck are you here?” Frank asks. “Gerard is your brother, if you forgot.”

    Mikey shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “But he does this a lot.” Frank’s not sure if he means that Gerard sucks Ray off a lot, or if he means that Gerard sucks dudes in general off a lot, or if he means that Gerard just has a lot of sex in the van. He’s also not sure if he wants to know. That’s a lie. He’s desperately curious for more details. “I learned a long time ago it’s better to just enjoy the show.”

    “I’m leaving now,” Frank says, taking a step back from the van,” and we’re gonna forget this happened.” He’s talking to himself, really. _He’s_ going to forget that this happened, he tells himself. He uses his free hand to close the van door and walks away.

\----

    The second time it happens, Frank starts worrying. They have an actual dressing room at this venue, not just the storage room or the employee bathroom or the taped off area that passes as a stage. It’s happened before but is still a rare occurrence. Frank comes back from the bathroom and opens the door to their Totally Real Dressing Room before stepping inside.

    “Oh come on, what the fuck guys?”

    Ray has Gerard pressed against the wall, one hand on the curve of Gerard’s ass where he has his leg hooked over Ray’s hip. He looks over at the commotion Frank makes, but Gerard just moves to start kissing the side of Ray’s neck instead of his mouth. Mikey is sitting on the ratty old couch, (and isn’t everything they touch that isn’t each other these days ratty and old) one hand around a bottle of whiskey and the other pressed against the front of his pants. He glances at Frank when he enters, but doesn’t bother moving his head. Gerard slides his hand down the back of Ray’s pants, and Frank turns and leaves the room.

    He finds Otter at the bar in a twist that everyone saw coming. Frank sits on the stool next to him. They don’t talk. When they take the stage later (an actual stage!) nothing is different. Nothing was different last time. Frank thinks maybe this won’t ever change anything. Maybe it will change everything. He should really find out.

\----

    “We need to have a talk,” Frank calls to Ray, wherever he may be. He drops down into the one open space on Ray’s couch; the rest of it is covered in laundry and magazines and trash.

    “Frankie? What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” Ray responds, voice coming from the direction of the kitchen or the bedroom. Frank wasn’t invited. They all have keys to each other’s places, because none of them should really be left alone.

    Ray comes out into the living room. He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hands that he’s using to wring the water out of his hair. He comes to stand in front of the couch and raises his eyebrows. “We need to talk,” Frank says again in answer to the unspoken question.

    “You need to leave,” is Ray’s answer. He drops the towel from his head, holding it loosely while he forcibly pulls Frank up off the couch. “You need to leave right now.” Frank can understand needing some space, really, but they got back from tour almost a week ago. They have practice scheduled for tomorrow. Ray should be at least begrudgingly willing to be around Frank.

   “Dude, what’s going on?” Frank asks even as Ray is shoving him towards the door. He’s only using one hand, because the other is clutching at his towel, but he’s still stronger than frank.

    “Out!” Ray says again. He reaches around Frank and  opens the front door, then pushes him out with a strong shove between his shoulder blades. Frank stumbles forward and hears the door click shut behind him.

    He could go back in. He’s got the key, and he knows how to be persistent. He could just walk back in there and demand to be told what the fuck is going on, but he doesn’t. It probably wouldn’t do any good, and then Ray would just be _more_ pissed at him than he apparently already is. Frank resolves to let it go and come back in a few days. Maybe he’ll call ahead next time, ask what the fuck that was all about.

    When Frank starts leaving, that plan is rendered unnecessary pretty quickly, though. He runs into Gerard and Mikey on his way down the stairs to the street. Gerard’s eyes go the size of dinner plates, but Mikey just grins at him from behind his dirty glasses. Frank walks away without replying to Mikey’s cheerful,” See you at practice tomorrow!”

\----

    Practice is fine. Ray doesn’t sit near Frank, or sit at all, really. He stands, bouncing from leg to leg, the whole practice, even during their breaks, never straying too close to anyone else, but he’s fine. His playing is fine. Frank tries not to notice the way Gerard is watching him watch Ray. Frank tries not to watch Ray.

    Practice is fine.

\----

    “We need to talk,” Frank says before Ray has even properly answered the phone. Practice was on Friday. It’s now Monday. He gave Ray the weekend to pull himself together.

    “Frankie,” Ray says in response. It’s not a greeting or a noun of proper address. At this point it’s really just a hair’s width away from a swear. Ray says it with the same inflections he uses when he shouts “God _damnit”_ at broken amps.

    “I’m coming over,” Frank says. He hangs up before Ray can reply. He’s in front of Ray’s apartment complex, waiting to see if Gerard and Mikey come out. If they do he’s going to force them back inside for a chat; if they don’t he’s going to demand answers from Ray.

    He doesn’t know why he’s so hung up on this, why he needs to catch them, to make them feel some _shame._ Not for fucking dudes or fucking Ray or watching each other fuck Ray or fucking whoever they want to fuck, but for not _telling_ him what the _hell_ is going on. They should be better friends than that. He should be a better friend than this. Really, he should just respect their privacy (or lack thereof). If they don’t want to talk about it then it’s not his place to pry. Except that this could ruin the band. This could ruin them all. He tells himself that that’s why he’s here.

    He stands there for ten minutes. Gerard and Mikey never come out. He tells himself it’s not disappointment that he feels in his gut while he walks up the stairs. He doesn’t even know what he was hoping for.

    Ray’s not home when Frank opens the door to his apartment. Frank thinks maybe he should’ve considered that possibility when he called, considering this new age of wireless telephones. Whatever, he has to come home eventually. Frank makes a sandwich in Ray’s kitchen and plays with Ray’s guitars while he waits. He considers snooping through his bedroom, but that makes him a bad person, not just a mediocre friend. He curls up in the space on Ray’s couch and naps instead.

\----

    Ray doesn’t come home. Frank wakes up, and the apartment’s still empty save himself. It’s two A.M. He shoots off a text telling Ray to stop being a pussy and come the fuck home so they can talk about this. Ray doesn’t respond. Frank very nearly throws his phone.

    Logically, if he didn’t rent a motel room for the night, Ray is either at his mom’s place or at Gerard’s. A quick call confirms it’s not the former. Frank’s stomach does a weird flip when he thinks about what Ray may or may not be doing at Gerard’s. He ignores it and puts his coat back on instead.

\----

    There’s an old bat who lives next door to Gerard. She’s called the cops on them with noise complaints more times than Frank’s had a hot meal, but they’ve never actually been charged with anything because she’s just a bitch. She opens her front door and stands with her arms crossed in Frank’s peripheral vision while he _beats the living shit_ out of Gerard’s apartment door.

    “Let me in you motherfuckers!” Frank is yelling as he pounds. The door is thin and cheap; Frank knows they can hear him.

    “Go away, Frankie,” Gerard’s voice comes from deeper in the apartment, like he’s hoping he won’t have to get out of bed.

    “I will kick down your door,” Frank calls back. He sees the lady from next door scramble back inside her apartment, probably to call the goddamn cops again. There’s no response, so Frank raises his foot and kicks at the wood of the door. He doesn’t try hard enough to actually break it, just enough to let them know he’s serious.

    “You have a key!” Gerard shouts. Frank kicks again. “Fuck, fine!” Frank hears him clomping from the back of the apartment to the door before the locks click open and Gerard is standing in the doorway in front of him. “Fine, Frank. What the hell do you need?”

    “I need to talk to Ray,” Frank says. “I need to talk to you. Fuck, I need to talk to Mikey. Just--band meeting, now.” He pushes past the arm that Gerard has blocking the doorway.

    “I’m not letting Otter into my apartment any time after dark,” Gerard says firmly, “and I didn’t say you could come in, either.”

    “Well I'm willing to bet that three fifths of the band are already here,” Frank says back. “Ray!” Frank calls. “I know you're in here.”

    There’s movement, and soon Ray comes shuffling out of Gerard’s bedroom. He’s wearing just his jeans slung dangerously low around his hips; the rest of him is bare. Mikey pokes his head out of the door behind him. Frank shouldn't be surprised by that, but he is. Mikey is fully clothed, and Frank’s _not_ surprised by that. He thinks Mikey could have and probably _has_ had fully penetrative sex without fully removing a single article of clothing.

    “Sit,” Frank says forcefully, pointing to Gerard's couch. The others all three look at each other and then at Frank before shuffling with their heads down like disobedient children to the couch. “You three have some explaining to do.”

    “I like to watch them fuck,” Mikey says immediately. Ray and Gerard both whip their heads to stare, wide-eyed, at him. He shrugs. “What? He basically already knows.” He speaks to Frank again. “They fuck a lot. I watch. Do you need any more explanation?”

    “So you two aren’t fucking?” Frank gestures between Mikey and Ray, and they both shake their heads. “And you two aren’t fucking?” He gives Mikey and Gerard the same treatment.

    “I’m not fucking my baby brother, Frankie,” Gerard says, and Frank swears that he sees the man's lips curl up into a smirk as he says it.

    “Are you, like, dating?” Frank asks. “Could this end in a breakup that blows up the whole band? Because it’s not just you guys’ asses on the line for that.”

    They’re quiet for a moment. Ray looks like he’s just about to say something when Gerard finally speaks. “We’re not dating,” he says firmly. Ray’s mouth snaps shut, and he nods.

    Frank goes to ask another question, but Mikey interrupts him. “I’m not dating Ray either,” he says. Frank glares but nods. That _had_ been what he was going to ask, after all.

    “No dating?” Frank asks. The other three shake their heads. “Just fucking?” Nods answer.

    This is still a bad plan, Frank knows. Fucking someone _always_ makes things more messy. Frank can’t even imagine what the setup those three have going on could do to their lives if it collapsed. He can’t really do anything, though. Sure he could preemptively quit the band and start looking for other options, cut his losses now, but he’s not going to do that. This is his life, and this is his band, and these are his best friends. If they’re sinking the ship then he’ll play captain for them.

    “Alright,” Frank says, after his moments of thought. He relaxes his posture. He’s made his decision.

    “We’re good?” Gerard asks.

    “Yeah,” Frank says. Gerard beams at him.

    “Can I go get a shirt?” Ray pipes up. “Are we done here? Is weird daddy-Frank time over?”

    “Fuck, I guess I’ll go,” Frank says in response. “That’s--this was all I came here for.” He gestures broadly to express conversation. “You guys can,” he trails off,” do whatever you were gonna do, I guess.”

    He never even took his coat off, so nothing’s stopping him from walking out the door. “So, like, bye?” he says as he swings the door open.

    “Bye Frankie,” Gerard calls. “See you at practice.”

\----

    Gerard calls Frank at three A.M. to cuss him out about the cops at his apartment. They get slapped with a fine for disturbing the peace this time. Frank thinks it's really only because the old angry hag wouldn't be satisfied without it. He’s not sorry.

\----

    Practice is fine. Ray is looser, more relaxed. He doesn't maintain that careful personal space like he did last time, walking around and leaning against Frank and over Gerard to look at some thing or other that Gerard has written down. He still never really sits down, though, never settles with the rest of them to talk out riffs and plans, just stands, hovering over Mikey’s shoulder while the rest of them are sitting on chairs in some sort of loose huddle. He still talks, gives ideas. Otter uses the extra chair as a footstool. Frank tries not to noticed the way Gerard’s foot is pressed against Mikey’s calf, the way Mikey is leaning back toward where Ray’s standing behind him.

    Frank is fine.

\-----

    Nothing changes for a long time. They’re the same five guys in the same gross van driving on the same interstate to do the same thing. Sometimes Frank suggests that he and Otter go out for a bit, and that’s not different, not really. If the looks that Mikey and Gerard were tossing each other while Ray loaded amps in the van are what spurr Frank's suggestion, no one needs to know.

    “Are you wearing pink underwear?” Otter says one night. The exclamation makes Frank look over. (He wasn't looking before. He _wasn't.)_ Ray goes from bent over messing with cables to standing straight up and tugging his shirt down over the back of his pants in maybe half a second.

    “Mikey didn't fucking separate the whites when he did laundry,” Ray stutters out. “They're my last clean pair.” His face is turning red under his tan skin. Otter laughs and calls Mikey a motherfucker, and Ray takes the good-natured slap on the back with a smile, but Frank is frowning.

    Otter went to take apparently the Biggest Shit Ever last time they stopped at a laundromat, because he was gone before they had actually walked in the door and didn't return until they were done. Frank was there though, sitting on one of the benches arguing with Mikey about whether or not Anakin Skywalker was a Christ allegory, and what his inevitable decent and redemption were supposed to mean if he were. They never really came to an agreement, not even when Gerard finally came over to put his two cents in. They all three sat there through their entire pit-stop.

    Ray did all the laundry. Ray almost always does all the laundry, because the rest of them do shit like not separating the whites. It’s easier to let Ray bitch about having to do the laundry than to let Ray bitch about how they did it wrong. If Ray’s wearing pink underwear it’s because Ray _bought_ pink underwear.

    Frank wonders if it's part of a dare, a lost bet, if he wasn't paying attention at the store, if they're a gag gift from an old girlfriend, but deep in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach, Frank knows none of those are right. Somehow, for some reason or other, Ray is wearing pink underwear because he's fucking Gerard. Frank knows this with the same unfounded certainty that he knows the van will continue to start and this band will continue to play.

    Nothing changes.

\----

    A lot of little things change in a very short amount of time. They lose a drummer but not a friend. Gerard gets clean. Frank finds Ray with Mikey's dick down his throat in the men's room of a rest stop. That last one was inevitable, really. Frank had pegged them as fucking, or at least _eye_ -fucking, even before the van incident of over a year ago.

    So Gerard’s not falling over on smooth, flat ground and getting so high that he starts accusing Mikey of not loving him; their drummer doesn’t half-ass his job; and Mikey and Gerard are sharing their lead guitarist. They’re all _good_ changes, probably.

    Frank wonders when Bob’s going to find out the band’s little secret, then he starts to wonder if Otter ever knew, if that contributed to him leaving. Last week Frank opened the van door to find Ray sitting in Gerard’s lap and sucking major face. (Mikey was in the seat next to them, curled with his feet propped on the seat in front of him and texting. Frank couldn’t tell if he was hard or not.) So Frank thinks it’s really only a matter of time before Bob catches on.

    A problem arises when Frank realizes that he’s started looking forward to their escapades. Every time he opens a door his heart rate speeds up. Every time he goes out to the van his stomach flips. Every time he jerks off he sees Ray’s mouth with a cock in it. He’s gotta do something about it

    In Maryland, Frank picks up a guy. It’s not the first time he’s done it. It’s not even the first time he’s done it in the last year. It _is_ the first time he does it because he saw Ray slide his hand in the back pocket of Gerard’s pants and lean down to say something close to his ear. Gerard had smiled, licked his lips and nodded, and that image made heat pool low in Frank’s stomach, made him want to hold someone down and fuck them till he got this out of his system. He couldn’t take it anymore.

    The guy is cute, taller than Frank, has got long, dark hair that Frank’s imagining fisting his hand in from behind later. His name is Timothy, and he’s a natural born cocksucker.

    “C’mon,” Frank says, tugging at his hair. “Wanna fuck you, 'f that’s okay.” Timothy moans and pulls off Frank’s cock, keeping his hand wrapped around the base.

    “Yeah,” he says. “I--fuck, yeah.” He presses the heel of his hand against his dick through his pants. “That’s good.”

    Frank hauls him up by his shoulders and half-assedly buttons his pants, leaving his belt and zipper undone and tugging his shirt down over the hole as he leads Timothy to the van.

    Frank eats him out on the backseat, gets him moaning Frank’s name before Frank even _thinks_ about touching his cock. Then he slips a single finger in with the slick of his spit while he feels around on the floor between the front seats for the communal tube of lube. (It started out as Gerard’s. If you use the last of it, you have to buy more, but they all make the same money anyway.)

    “Please,” Timothy begs when Frank’s a few fingers deep in him. Frank pulls a condom out of the front seat pocket, kisses the small of his back, and pulls his fingers out. Timothy gasps and arches his back up, ready, waiting, and Frank grabs his hips and presses in. It feels good; it feels so fucking good. He can’t help but moan as he presses further in, till Timothy’s ass is seated against his hips.

    “Fuck,” Frank breathes, leaning forward and bracing himself with one hand on the seat next to Timothy’s head. Timothy echoes it, and Frank takes that as the go-ahead to start moving.

    It’s good, just what Frank needed to deal with the images of his fucking bandmates that keep haunting him. He’s sure it’s just because he’s been so goddamn _horny_ lately. Of course your best friends having a threesome sounds hot when you haven’t gotten laid in months. Add the whole realization of the pink undies, and Frank’s subconscious was bound to get frustrated.

    After they both get off, Frank flops back against the door and lets Timothy crawl in between his legs and kiss him. He likes cuddling after sex, even if he doesn’t know the other person that well. It’s just a good comedown. Timothy nuzzles his neck, and Frank thinks yeah, this’ll fix his whole jerking off to his bandmates problem.

    Frank manages to not jerk off for a whole three days. Ray’s getting dressed post-shower in the bathroom of the hotel room they can afford now, but Frank pushes the door open anyway. He has to piss, and it’s not like Ray’s got anything that Frank hasn’t already seen.

    Except, oh, Ray’s body might not be a mystery to Frank anymore, but the things he puts on it certainly are, or were. Ray’s bent over, pulling his jeans up. They’re just past his knees, and the way he’s bent at the waist means there is literally no possible way that Frank could miss the fact that he’s wearing women’s underwear.

    They’re not lace, rather cotton. They’re not fancy. They look like they came out of a pack from Wal-Mart. They’re the kind of thing Frank remembers from his early high school adventures into girl’s hearts and pants, dark navy that’s striped with a soft baby blue color. They kind of make him want to cup Ray’s ass.

    Ray doesn’t seem to hear the door open, but he does hear it swing into the wall a couple seconds later. He stands straight up, pulling his pants with him, and whirls around to face Frank. Frank’s sure his face is a sight to behold, frozen in shock as it is. “You--panties?” Frank gets out.

    “I--yeah,” is Ray’s equally painful reply. He’s staring at the floor fit to burn a hole in it.

    “Okay,” Frank says. Ray looks up, looks him in the eyes. Frank nods. Ray nods back. Frank turns and leaves, letting the door swing closed behind him.

    Frank jerks off that night, imagines Ray on his knees with a cock down his throat for approximately the seven thousandth time, except this time Frank’s hand is in his hair. This time Frank’s using his grip to move him up and down on his cock, and Ray’s letting him, happily knelt on the floor in fucking cute cotton women’s underwear.

    Nothing changes.

\----

    Frank’s sitting on a bench. It’s not a very interesting bench, wooden and old, but he’s staring down at the wood grain between his legs like it’s the most interesting thing he could possibly lay his eyes on. Ray is a couple feet from him, facing away from him, and Frank can’t stare at his ass. He won’t allow himself to wonder what’s wrapped around his skin under those jeans, whether Ray brought it up himself or if it’s one of Gerard’s things. So he stares at the bench instead.

    “Dude, what’s up with you?” Frank nearly jumps out of his seat when Bob drops down onto the bench next to him. He’s holding an open beer in one hand, and offers Frank a new one with his other. Frank takes it but doesn’t open it, lets the condensation on it cool his sweaty hands.

    “What d’you mean?” he asks, ah yes, old fashioned avoidance techniques. He feels like a teenager again, trying not to let on to his parents that he’s got a crush on someone he shouldn’t, like a boy.

    “You’ve been sitting on this bench staring at the floor for a solid ten minutes,” Bob says. “Either something’s wrong or you think something’s wrong. You’re never this still and quiet.”

    Frank looks over at him and quickly looks back down.“It’s nothing,” he says. He picks at the wet label on the beer bottle just to have something to do with his hands. On a whim he asks,” You know about Ray and Gerard?”

    Bob taps three of his fingers against his beer bottle for a couple seconds. He drums when he’s thinking, Frank knows. “Know what about them?” Bob finally asks.

    “You know they’re fucking?”

    Bob sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He brings his beer up to his lips and takes a long drag. “Yep,” he says after he swallows.

    “The van?” Frank asks. Bob nods. “Know about Mikey?” Bob nods again, takes another drink.

    “But you don’t have a problem with that, right?” Bob asks. “I never pegged you for the traditional values type.”

    “I don’t have a problem with it,” Frank says. “I--” he trails off, picks at the label some more. It’s falling to pieces in his hands, kind of like his life. “I want in,” he finally says. Something in his chest breaks loose at finally admitting it. Bob makes a low whistle.

    “Don’t think I can help you there,” Bob says.

    “Yeah,” Frank says back. He opens the beer. While his head is tilted back to take a drink of it, from the corner of his eye he sees Ray looking at him. Mikey’s leaned in, whispering something in Ray’s ear. Frank swallows and looks back down. It’s not his place to speculate. It’s not his place to wish for change.

\-----

    He kinda turns into a slut after that exchange. He’s fucking his way through the East Coast’s gay male population, and it’s not enough. He keeps fucking finding Ray in places doing things he shouldn’t with people who aren’t Frank, and it’s fucking exhausting.

    He makes an effort to watch Ray do the laundry, didn’t realize until now that Gerard and Mikey are always distracting him when they stop at laundromats. When Frank pays attention, he sees little flashes of color that are out of place, pinks and purples and blues, and he knows what they are now, knows that _Ray_ is washing his _panties_ that he _wears regularly._ He _knows_ this, and the world isn’t imploding. People aren’t asking him about it on the street. There aren’t billboards about it, even though Frank wants to shout it at the sky because it’s fucking _earth shattering._ Ray wears panties, and Ray sucks dick, and Ray lets Gerard pull his hair when they make out, and all of this is _ground shaking_ , but nothing changes.

    Frank’s life is rocked to the core. He’s on his knees sucking dick in an alleyway because he’s lusting after his best friend, and nothing fucking changes.

\----

    “Where are you going?” Bob grabs Frank by the elbow as he goes to leave the dressing room. The set just ended. Mikey and Gerard are chattering away in one corner while Gerard towels his hair dry from the copious amounts of sweat in it; Ray has stripped his shirt off, which is _not_ good for Frank’s mental health.

    “I dunno. Somewhere. Out.” He’s going to find the buffest dude he can convince to bend over is where he’s going. It’s where he’s been going for the last month.

    “No you’re not,” Bob says. “ We’ve got a twelve hour drive for a show that’s tomorrow we’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

    “But I--”

    “Keep it in your pants, Iero.”

\----

    Frank doesn’t understand why _he_ has to keep it in his pants when he can _hear_ Ray and Gerard going at it in the back of the van. It’s a twelve hour drive; they’ve been on the road for four; this is their second round. He doesn’t understand how they’re not exhausted after the show. Bob and Mikey in the front seat either can’t hear them over the road noise and the radio, or they’re just ignoring it; Mikey might actually be asleep. Frank doesn’t have that luxury.

    Gerard’s noises are high and short; Ray’s are low and long. It’s a filthy cacophony that has Frank hunching further against the door of the van that he’s pretending to be asleep against, curled protectively around where his dick is getting hard against his thigh. There’s the unmistakable sound of skin sliding against skin, the slick noise of wet fingers going in and out of something, and Frank is slowly killing himself trying to build a mental picture of what’s happening back there.

    A low, drawn out groan, Frank remembers it from a few hours back. It’s the noise Ray makes when he comes. All this time, and Frank’s never seen any of their faces when they shoot, and no matter what image his brain conjures, he gets the feeling that it’s not _right._  He’s remembering Ray’s face wrong or the mole on Mikey’s chin is in the wrong spot or Gerard’s nose wouldn’t scrunch up like that. It’s just--his imagination isn’t perfect, and he thinks that that image would be.

    “Fuck,” that’s Gerard’s noise. “Fuck, you’re so good.” He’s probably sweaty; he’s a sweaty dude, just in general. Lord knows what the effort he’s required to exert for an orgasm would do. Frank can hear him breathing hard. Maybe he’s over Ray, stringy hair hanging down around his face, Ray’s fingers in his ass. Maybe it’s the other way around; maybe Ray’s got Gerard pinned down under his thick thighs, rocking against him, Gerard’s fingers spreading him open. Maybe he’s wearing some of those fucking panties, soaking them with his leaking cock. Frank groans when his dick twitches in his pants, curls up tighter in his seat.

    “Alright, Frankie?” Bob asks from the front. Frank nods, makes some kind of noise that he thinks means yes. “Good,” Bob says, “I don’t want to have to pull over for your ass to puke on the side of the road.”

    “Won’t be a problem,” Frank says. Bob grunts in response. There’s no noise from the backseat.

    “You’re gonna have to stop for me anyway,” Mikey says. He’s not been asleep, then.

    “No can-do,” Bob replies.

    “I’ve been trying to get you to stop for an hour.”

    “Yep.”

    “If we don’t stop at the next exit, I’m going to piss on you.”

    “Go back to sleep.

    “Piss on you and your drum kit, every night of tour.”

    “We’re not even halfway there!”

    “Halfway bathroom breaks don’t apply on a half a _day_ drive. Now get over!”

    Frank nearly pisses _himself_ when Mikey leans over and yanks the wheel in Bob’s grip, trying to force it to the right. Bob swears, and there is cursing and grunting as Ray and Gerard are flung around in the backseat. A passing car swerves and honks.

    “ _Fine_ , jesus,” Bob says. He flicks the van’s signal and exits. Frank can hear Gerard and Ray clambering around in the back, probably getting dressed.

    They stop at a gas station. They were gonna have to buy fuel at some point, and it’s the only open this late at night, anyway. Frank has managed to somewhat will his erection away in the time between exiting and parking, but he’s still rocking at least a semi. He needs to piss. He has to get out of the van.

    Bob gets out and goes around the back to let Ray and Gerard out. A gust of air hits Frank’s back, and he hopes the cold makes his dick behave.  “You comin’, Frankie?” Mikey calls through the open front passenger side door.

    “Yeah,” Frank says. He’s still curled up against the door. “Gimme a minute.” He feigns yawning and stretching his arms out. He hears the front door close again.

    “Alright, dude, we don’t have time for this,” Frank says to himself. Well, Frank says to his dick, really.  He tries to adjust himself, tries to will it _away_ , and when he’s pretty sure there’s not an incoming public indecency charge, he slides the van door open and gets out.

    Gerard is leaning against the tail of the van, smoking. His hair is a rat’s nest like Frank’s never seen it before, and there’s a hickey blooming up from under the stretched out collar of his t-shirt. Fuck, Frank could use a cigarette.

    He pulls the door shut behind him and shambles over to Gerard. It’s cold out here; he’s wishing he hadn’t stripped off all his outer layers in the heat of the van. Gerard looks at him through the smoke he blows out. Frank makes grabby fingers, and Gerard hands over the partially-smoked cigarette, reaches in his back pocket for a new one of his own.

    Frank sucks it down greedily, lets the smoke sit heavy in his lungs before he even thinks of exhaling. “Mikey took the men’s room first, and Ray’s in the women's,” Gerard says. Frank’s stomach does a weird thing. He ignores it. "Bob's next in line, then me.” Gerard looks over at Frank, and Frank briefly acknowledges him. “Last out, last in.”

    Frank makes a humming noise of agreement. He knows the rules. He knows the rules better than Gerard, apparently, because he’s sure the road trip rules clearly state that fucking your best friend in a moving vehicle filled with your other best friends is a party foul.

    He holds the cigarette in his fingers, lets its tiny amount of heat keep them from going numb. He eyes the hickey. “I can hear you two back there, you know,” he says casually.

    “Yeah,” Gerard says. Somehow, Frank’s not surprised that he knew. Gerard looks away front Frank, up at the sky. He takes another drag, brings his free hand up to rub at the bruise on his neck. He keeps it in for a long moment, then blows out the smoke in one smooth cloud. Frank is enraptured by the movements. “You want us to stop?”

    Frank stops looking at him, turns his head to stare at the sky too. Maybe the answers to his problems are up there. “No,” he whispers to the clouds. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Gerard nod his head. They finish their cigarettes in silence.

    After everyone’s bathroom break and a brief aside to shop for snacks, they pile back into the van. Frank nearly begs to take a turn driving, not sure he can take another four hours of what he’s just been through, until he locks eyes with Mikey who’s tugging Ray into the back of the van, and a burning curiosity overwhelms him. Gerard replaces Bob as the driver, and Bob moves to the passenger seat. Frank lies longways on the backseat and closes his eyes; he’s always thought that makes him hear better.

    There’s nothing but the rattling of the van and the sound of the radio for a while. Frank wrestles his hoodie back on and thinks maybe he’ll just fall asleep instead; it would do him good. Then there’s shuffling from the back, though, and Frank’s attention shifts. He wiggles lower in the seat, hidden from the front seat behind the middle bench. He’s never been so happy to be short.

    “C’mon,” Mikey whispers. “Yeah over...like that.” His voice is dipping in and out, blending in with the road noise sometimes and just too quiet to be heard others. Frank concentrates as hard as he can, somewhere in the back of his mind he curses any loss of hearing his profession has caused. He catches a few cutoff phrases, “fuck” and “still wearing them” and “ruined.” There's the sound of a soft elastic waistband being snapped against skin, and Frank wonders what pair it is. Is it the pink ones? The stripes? One of those soft, pale greens he’s seen in the wash?

    “Mikey,” Ray says, low and desperate. There’s not much talking after that. Frank hears wet noises, hears the _pop!_ of a tube being opened, hears the slick sound of fingers moving in and out and in and out again. Ray groans. Frank hears a thump like he’s thrown his head back or stomped his foot or arched his back and let his ass fall back on the floor.

    God, Ray’s ass--it’s undisputable what’s happening right now. Frank’s had his ups and downs and suspicions and doubts with this theory, but right now he’s convicted. Mikey is definitely fingering Ray in the back of the van. Another noise, Mikey groaning, maybe Ray’s rubbed up against his cock. Maybe he’s just overwhelmed by what a pretty picture his boyfriend(?) makes.

    It’s a picture that Frank desperately wants to see. Is Ray on his back, cock hard and leaking against his belly, with his legs wrapped around Mikey’s waist? Is he on his stomach, grinding against the floor and back against Mikey’s hand? On his hands and knees, with his cock and balls hanging down between his thighs where Mikey can reach around with his free hand and grab them?

    Frank makes the tiniest, most desperate noise he thinks he’s ever made and reaches down to press his palm flat over the bulge of his cock. He’s only about eighty percent sure that he’s actually gonna go through with this until he hears Mikey say,” So pretty when you cry.” He has to squeeze his dick through his jeans at that, mutters curses under his breath.

    He shoves the loose fabric of the collar of his hoodie into his mouth as a makeshift gag, then fumbles his belt and pants open. Frank can hear Ray talking, a stream of consciousness babble, he thinks. Every now and then he catches,”Please.”

    In the back of his mind, in some far off corner, Frank thinks that this entire experience is going to _ruin him_ for jerking to anything else. He slides his hand into his boxers and wraps it around his cock anyway. The thought that he might never get off again after this pales in comparison to the thought of how fucking _hard_ he’s going to get off _right now._

Clinking, shuffling, the barely audible slide  slide of fabric--these are all sounds that Frank recognizes as someone unbuckling a belt and sliding their pants down. God, he wishes he could complete the mental picture, wishes he knew how they were positioned.

    Mikey says something, something low and smooth, and Ray moans so loud that Frank worries Bob heard it. Then Frank realizes that the people in the van who are okay with this happening far outnumber the person who is not, and that Bob’s not driving anymore, and promptly stops caring about it, goes back to caring about his hand on his dick.

    More shuffling, Mikey says,“Yeah, up on your knees.” A few seconds later they both groan in a way that can only mean Mikey’s slid his cock inside of Ray. Frank’s panting against the fabric of his hoodie at the mental image. “Such a good boy.” Mikey’s voice is closer now, they’ve raised up off the floor, and Frank wonders for scant seconds if Mikey’s done it on purpose. Ray whines quietly.

    “My best boy,” Mikey speaks again. Frank’s not sure if he’s started moving, started _fucking Ray,_ yet, but he thinks he has. He hopes he has. Frank’s not going to be able to hold out much longer. He thinks he feels the van rocking in unexpected ways, and then he can hear the sound of skin roughly hitting skin.

    He nearly jumps to the floor when Ray’s arm appears over the back of the seat. It’s slung around the headrest. Frank can see the veins in his arms bulging as he grips the seat tighter. “Fuck, fuck,” Ray’s whispering. Frank can only imagine what his other hand is doing, can only think about Ray’s hand wrapped around his own slick cock and jerking off while Mikey fucks him, while he gives it up in the back of the van with _panties_ around his thighs. If Mikey didn’t wear a condom (likely) his perfect ass will be leaking cum into them later.

    That’s what finally does Frank in. The thought of Ray with cum leaking out of him, soaking his panties, running down his thighs, is too much. Frank tugs his cock a scant few more times, bucking up off the bench seat into his hand, and comes in his hand, across his hoodie.

    “C’mon, Ray.” Mikey’s voice is incredibly close now, like he’s leaning his head up near Ray’s. “Pretty boy, let me see you come, let me feel you.” The hand that Frank can see scrabbles at the fabric of the upholstery, clenching and unclenching and scraping nails against it. Frank hears that noise again, that low groan that Ray makes when he comes. That makes three time in five hours, and Frank’s honestly kind of impressed, by both the Ways apparent skills and Ray’s short refractory period.

    Mikey doesn’t seem to make a noise when he comes, but a few seconds later Frank hears steady panting, then the low murmur of Mikey saying something. Ray’s hand loosens its death grip on the upholstery and slides back over the seat. Frank can’t really hear much more over the erratic beat of his heart, the gasp of his lungs.

    After a few minutes the fevered heat of his skin dissipates, and he realizes that there's a cold breeze from the shitty seal in the side door brushing across him, making his whole body cold, and the exposed skin of his cock even colder. He tucks himself away, does his best to clean up with whatever wadded napkins he can find on the floor, and tunes back into the world around him.

    There’s soft humming coming from the back now, accompanied by what Frank recognizes as Ray’s snoring. He wants to looks back there, see how they’re laid out, but he doesn’t. That idea seems even more like an invasion of privacy than what he’s been doing. Jerking off thinking about someone fucking their boyfriend and watching a couple cuddle are two completely different levels of voyeurism. Frank doesn’t think he’s desperate enough to sink that low just yet, but things may change.

\-----

    Frank’s string of lovers continues. Boys all across the coast have screamed his name, gotten on their knees for him, done everything he’s told them. It should be a power trip, but it’s not, really. It’s mostly disappointing. Nothing is as good as the orgasms that hit him in the back of that van, because it’s become a _thing_ now, Ray getting fucked while they drive. They don’t do it every time, and that’s what makes every car ride a living hell for Frank. He’s always on constant alert for any sound from behind him; whenever he’s driving and can’t see Ray he’s anxious about missing something; he can’t fall asleep because every shift and bump from the back makes him hyperfocused on it, waiting to see if it goes somewhere.

    So Frank is sleeping even less and getting off even more than usual. He’s basically kept alive with coffee and cat naps by the last few days of the tour, living in constant fear of developing a repetitive motion stress injury in his wrist but unable to stop touching his dick. When they get home and Frank gets dropped off at his apartment with his guitars and a bag of dirty laundry, he falls facefirst into his bed and just lies there, motionless for a solid ten minutes while his mind digests everything it’s experienced the past weeks.

    He finally drifts off to sleep. If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it. When he wakes up again the clock is two hours further along, and Frank’s cock is hard where it’s trapped between him and the mattress. His mouth opens on a moan as he somewhat involuntarily starts rolling his hips into the mattress. Then he starts doing it purposefully. He has time. He has time and privacy in spades right now, and he honestly wants to just lazily dry hump his mattress. He’s so tired of frantic jerking off.

    He wonders if Ray and Mikey and Gerard are enjoying the alone-together time. Then he groans and shoves his face into the blankets, because, fuck, they’re probably both taking their sweet time with him, spreading him out all pretty on the bed. God, they could fucking spitroast him. There’s no room in the van, but at home? Frank whines and rolls over so he can work on getting his pants open.

    He comes across his sheets like a fucking child, rutting into his hand like an animal, thinking about the Ways filling Ray up so good. He can’t decide if he wants to be them or be Ray or just fucking watch it happen.

    They’re back on tour in two weeks. There’s only a few days rest before practice starts up again; Brian’s riding their asses hard about being perfect on stage. It’s nice to have someone who believes in you, but that also means that he expects the best of them. Frank’s not sure he’s going to be able to look three-fourths of the rest of his band in the eye when he sees them next. These are all problems for tomorrow-Frank, though. He rolls over, away from the wet spot, and goes back to sleep.

\----

    Practice is fine. Frank still marvels at how much easier it is with Bob than it was before. Ray sits on the couch (they have a practice space with a _couch_ now) during breaks. Gerard sits on his right; Mikey sits on his left. Each of them has a knee touching either of his. Frank stands, leaned against the wall, and watches. He’s wondering what’s underneath Ray’s pants, what Mikey and Gerard have been doing to him the past few days, why he’s so fucking boneless. He fucks up a lot more when he stands behind Ray, so he starts pacing in front of him instead.

    Practice is fine. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change. Frank is fine.

\----

    Before this  most recent tour, Frank and Ray were still friends. They still hung out and talked and played video games and got beers together. Frank thinks that they still are. He hopes that they still are, that circumstances haven’t changed that, because Frank can totally be friends with someone he wants to fuck. He’s done it before.

    It’s with these thoughts in mind that he swings open the door to Ray’s apartment with a pizza in his hand, a twelve pack under his arm (pre-chilled, of course), and his PS2 memory card in his front pocket. He’s here to get buzzed and beat the shit out of some pixels with his best friend. Frank is going to keep this relationship alive, or he’s going to die trying.

    “Raymond Toro!” he calls as he enthusiastically swings the door open. “Cancel all your plans!”

    “Frankie?!” Ray’s panicked voice calls from the kitchen.

    “The one and only.”

   Frank moves the beer into his hand rather than under his arm and walks toward the kitchen. “What are you doing here?” Ray’s voice cracks on the first word, and that’s when Frank’s brain starts to catch up. His feet don’t get the memo though, and he rounds the corner to the kitchen due to something beyond his own control.

    He thinks he hears the sound of bone hitting laminate when his jaw drops at the sight before him, but he’s not sure. That might just be his own pulse pounding in his ear as his heart rapidly diverts blood to his cock.

    Ray is on his knees on the kitchen floor. His legs are spread wide around a pair of hips that are too pale to belong to anyone but Gerard. He’s fully naked, but Gerard’s jeans are trapped around his lower thighs. The way they’re sitting means Frank can’t see anything where their bodies connect except for the briefest movement of Gerard’s hips. Ray would be facing Frank if it weren’t for Mikey, so he can see Ray’s thick cock and the hand he has wrapped around it just fine.

    Mikey has one hand fisted in Ray’s thick hair, keeping it turned away from the door, the other holding his shirt out of the way while he moves Ray’s head on his cock. He’s still full clothed. His jeans are open and pulled just under his ass.

    Ray whines when Frank appears in the doorway, pawing at Mikey’s hip. His whole body is bouncing slightly every time Gerard thrusts into him, because Gerard _hasn’t_ _stopped._ Mikey pulls Ray’s head off his cock when he starts pushing away. Ray drops his head against Mikey’s hip, hiding his face. “Please,” he says quietly, his voice is _wrecked_. From sucking cock, Frank’s brain helpfully supplies.

    Mikey cards the fingers of both hands through Ray’s hair soothingly. He looks over and down, presumably at Gerard, and Ray stops bouncing. Gerard stops moving.

    “Frankie,” Mikey says. He’s leaned back against the countertop, his posture far too casual for the situation at hand. His dick is still out, for Christ’s sake. “You need something?”

    “I was just--I wanted--Ray--” He finally just nods his head toward the pizza he’s holding, hoping that conveys what he can’t manage to say around the lust lodged in his throat.

    “Game night,” Mikey says for him. Frank nods. “Sounds fun. Gee, doesn’t that sound fun?”

    “Sounds fun, Mikes.”

    “Give us a bit,” Mikey says. He’s running his fingers through Ray’s hair again, and Ray is quietly mouthing at his hipbone. Frank can see the pink flash of a tongue every few seconds. “Promise we won’t break him.”

    “Or he could stay,” Gerard suggests. He’s got one pale hand running up and down Ray’s chest. Frank can’t see his face, but he’s sure that if he could there’d be a shit-eating grin on it. “You know how he likes to watch.”

    “Likes to listen,” Mikey agrees with a nod of his head. “Ray, your thoughts?” Ray doesn’t answer so much as he moans into Mikey’s hip and rolls against Gerard’s cock. Mikey shrugs. “Do what you want, then, Frankie.” He tightens one hand in Ray’s hair into a fist and drags him back to his cock.

    The pizza is hot, and Frank’s arm is getting tired of holding it up, but he feels like if he moves a spell will be broken. So he stays, stands there and doesn’t move, lets the pizza burn his hand, lets his arm go numb, and never _ever_ looks away.

    Gerard has moved one hand down to hold Ray’s hip. His pale fingers dig into the meat of Ray’s thigh, and the way Ray’s skin turns white under his fingers is captivating. Frank’s eyes follow the line of Ray’s thigh over to where he’s fisting his cock. He’s bucking into his own fist every chance he gets, but his wrist never moves. It’s a shame; Frank thinks that his arms would look really good moving that way.

    From there, Frank’s gaze moves up Ray’s chest. He’s sweating; the lines of his pecs and the softness of his stomach are shiny with it. Gerard's other arm is wrapped possessively across Ray's chest, his nails digging into the skin as he holds onto Ray and fucks into him.

     The line of Gerard’s arm caries Frank’s attention up to Ray’s biteable throat and on to his mouth that’s wrapped around Mikey’s cock, to the fist that’s moving Ray’s head. Mikey is using him as a glorified masturbatory aid, and Frank’s stomach is dizzy while he tries to figure out what end of that equation he wants to be on. Ray has no such reservations. He’s moaning, _gagging_ with it, all the while holding onto Mikey's hips but not pushing his away. Frank knows he could, has seen Ray effortlessly push both of the Ways around when he wants to.

    Mikey’s free hand comes down to grasp Ray's jaw; his thumb starts running  circles along the joint of it. Ray makes a happy little noise, pets Mikey’s hip and thigh and ass. (He can cover a lot at one time, big hands.) Frank sees his eyes flick up to Mikey’s face. “You look so pretty like this,” Mikey says. “Such a good cocksucker.” Ray moans; it’s a noise that sounds like it was ripped out of him without his consent. Mikey tilts his head back and echoes it, moaning unabashedly.

    “Come in his mouth,” Gerard says. He’s still fucking Ray, trailing his hand up to Ray’s neck, the other still gripping Ray’s hip. He moves it further, runs his fingers across Ray’s spit covered chin until his fingers meet Mikey’s cock. He cups Mikey’s balls in his palm, and his fingers wrap loosely around the part of Mikey’s cock that doesn’t fit in Ray’s mouth. Frank’s breath leaves him for greener pastures. “Wanna feel it. C’mon, Mikes.”

    Hearing Gerard gently encourage his baby brother to come in Ray’s mouth is just too much for Frank. He groans quietly, wishes that he had a free hand to press against his cock. Mikey listens to Gerard. His fingers grip the edge of the countertop, and his hips stutter against Ray’s mouth and Gerard’s hand as he comes.

    “Fuck,” Mikey says. It’s high and tight and breathless. Gerard drops his hand from Mikey’s cock, brings it to rest on the curve of Ray’s shoulder. “Fuck, Ray, fuck, stop.” Mikey’s tugging at Ray’s hair. Ray hasn’t stopped sucking him, and Frank knows he’s gotta be super sensitive after a show like that. Ray whines as Mikey finally pulls him away. His mouth is hanging open, and he looks up at Mikey.

    “Fuck, good boy,” Mikey says, running his fingers through Ray’s hair. Ray groans and nuzzles into the curve of Mikey's thigh. Ray’s started moving his hand now, and Frank was right. The flex of the muscles in his arm is a sight to behold.

     Ray whines and leans forward, braces himself with his free hand on the kitchen floor whole Gerard grabs his hips with both hands and pushes up into him. He’s staring down at the floor, his hair a curtain, a barrier between himself and Frank. It’s good. Frank’s not sure that he could handle seeing Ray’s face right now.

    “C’mon, baby,” Mikey says. He’s petting Ray now, his hair, his neck, the tops of his shoulders. “Let Frank hear how pretty you sound when you come. You know he loves that noise.”

    If Frank's face wasn't already overheated he'd be blushing. Ray moans and his hand speeds up. Moments later, his whole body stills, and he gasps out a broken, “ Oh fuck.” Frank can't see his cock, but he can see when his cum shoots out on the kitchen floor. “Fuck,” Ray says more distinctly. He braces himself on both hands now, heaving in air.

    “You good, baby?” Gerard asks. Ray mumbles his confirmation. “Good cause I’m gonna--fuck--” Ray starts moving back, pushing back into Gerard’s thrusts, and whatever else Gerard was going to say gets lost in the whine that he makes when he comes.

    Frank thinks he blacks out for a few seconds, his mind unable to process any more stimuli. When he forces his eyes to focus again, Gerard is kneeling been Ray with his arms around his waist and his nose buried in the crook of his neck.  Ray hasn't moved much. He’s sat back, knelt on the floor with his head facing downwards. Frank doesn't think he'd be much for eye contact after doing something like that, either.

    “Such a good boy,” Mikey says. Gerard echoes the sentiment. Mikey leans down to pet Ray’s hair again. “You made a mess of the floor though.”

    “'M sorry, Mikey,” Ray says.

    “It's okay, baby,” Mikey says. Gerard presses a loud kiss to Ray’s shoulder. “You should clean up after yourself, though, shouldn’t he, Gee?”

    “Of course,” Gerard says. He sits up straight, keeps one hand on Ray’s hip and moves the other to grab the back of his hair. He pushes, and Ray willingly bends at the waist till his face is pressed against the floor where he’s just come. Frank wonders if what he thinks is going to happen next is actually going to happen and if he finds the thought hot or disgusting.

    With no further prompting, Ray sticks his tongue out and laps at the puddles of cum on the floor. At least, that’s what Frank _assumes_ the wet noises and movement of Ray’s head mean. He’s hard-pressed to come up with a more plausible explanation or a hotter one, to be honest. His theory is confirmed when Ray crawls forward, following the trail he left across the linoleum.

    It ends with him about a foot away from Frank, kneeling on the floor. His knees are probably red, aching, but he doesn't strain, doesn't get up, doesn't complain, just sits there kneeling with his head down like he's waiting for instructions. Frank feels himself staring, but can't stop.

    He almost jumps out of his skin when Mikey grabs the pizza he's holding. Mikey holds out his other hand, and Frank instinctively hands him the beer. Mikey sets them on the counter near him.

    “Gee,” Mikey says, looking over to his brother. Gerard stops in the middle of shimmying his jeans back on, looks at Mikey expectantly. “Do you think we should let them play?” He rests his hand softly on Ray's head. Frank swallows to wet his suddenly dry throat.

    Gerard sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck, Mikes, yeah,” he says.

    Mikey grips Ray’s hair and tugs 'til he's looking up. Mikey cups his chin and strokes his jaw. “Ray?” Mikey asks. In answer, Ray whines and drops his head against Mikey’s thigh. Mikey smiles down at him. “Frankie, I think I already know your answer.”

    Frank uses his newly freed hands to grip onto the door frame behind him and brace his suddenly weak knees. “Y-yeah,” Frank chokes out. He licks his lips and looks down at Ray. Frank's guitarist looks about three levels above blissed out, and he's looking up at Frank with big, brown, sleepy eyes. Frank's stomach and heart do a synchronized routine around his ribcage when Mikey moves his thumb just so Ray can suck it into his mouth.

    “Go on,” Mikey says gently. He softly tugs Ray forward by the hair, and Ray willingly follows. He crawls forward the last few inches to Frank, who scarcely dares to breathe. “Touch him,” Mikey says, and Frank doesn't know if he's talking to him or Ray. Luckily, Ray doesn't question it and reaches out to cup the bulge of Frank's cock through his pants. Frank’s breath stutters out of him.

    Ray looms up at him through dark lashes and a fluff of hair, eyebrows raised in question, and Frank brushes the hair back from his forehead and nods. Ray's tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Frank groans and drops his head back against the wall. He feels his belt and zipper being pulled open. When Frank ooks down, Ray starts nosing at his cock through his underwear, and he has to look away. The sight of Ray blissed out on his knees for Frank is just too much.

     His eyes dart up and catch on the Ways. Gerard has managed to get his pants and shirt back on, and he's leaning against Mikey where Mikey's leaning against the counter. Mikey has one arm slung low around his big brother's waist, fingers dipping under the waistband of his big brother's pants. Frank knows Gerard wears his pants low enough that one can see his pubes if he's topless, so he can only imagine what Mikey’s got his hand on below that. The thought alone makes him groan and look back up at the ceiling; it's the only safe place.

    Ray carefully nudges his fingers under the waistband of Frank's underwear and pulls them down slowly. Frank can't help but look down again, just as Ray pulls Frank's cock free. There's something just shy of reverence in Ray's eyes as he looks up at Frank.

    “Fuck, you look so good,” Frank breathes. He can't help reaching down to run his fingers over Ray’s hair. Ray nuzzles up into the touch, wraps the fingers of one hand around the base of Frank's cock. “Look so good on your knees.”

    Frank can't stop touching him. He runs his fingers over and through Ray's hair, cups his face and runs a thumb along his jaw, gently scratches along the back of his neck. Ray's mouth hangs open, eyes are closed as he lets Frank pet him. Franks thumb catches on Ray's bottom lip, and Ray's tongue darts out to lick it. His eyes flicker open, and he looks up at Frank.

    “Can I?” he asks against Frank’s thumb. He tentatively moves his hand along Frank's cock, and Frank can't help the twitch it gives.

    “Please,” he gasps out. Ray smiles, and it's such a fucking genuine, elated smile, like Ray's over the moon to be told he can suck Frank’s cock. Frank maybe kind of loves that face, but he doesn't have time to analyze the feeling completely. Ray leans up, guides the head of Frank’s cock into his mouth.

    Frank whines and bucks his hips once, up into Ray's mouth. “Fuck, sorry, sorry,” he stammers as he forces himself to stop. Ray just groans and presses forward, tries to swallow Frank down. Ray grabs the hand that's sort of resting limply on his neck and moves it up to his hair.

    “He likes it when you pull,” Mikey says, by way of explanation. Frank’s eyes dart back up to the pair of brothers. Mikey has moved. He's standing behind gerard with his arms wrapped around his big brother, resting his chin on Gerard's shoulder. It looks comfortable and distinctly unplatonic. Frank’s a little surprised by  just how easily he accepts that. He looks down at Ray again and tentatively grabs his hair in both hands. Ray makes an encouraging noise, and Frank tugs.

    Ray whines and shifts happily on his knees. Were he a dog, Frank would compare the motion to wagging. Frank takes it as encouragement and tightens his grip. Ray reaches up and grabs Franks hips, uses them to steady himself as he bobs his head up and down on Frank's cock. His mouth feels amazing, wet and hot and perfect around Frank.

    “Fuck,” Frank whines. “Can I?” He moves his hips forward again, and Ray moans, opens his jaw slack and wide to let him know it's okay. Frank moans and bends forward, hunched over Ray's head. Ray's letting him piston into his throat, but he's still sucking, using his tongue, laving at Frank like he's the greatest thing Ray's ever tasted.

    Frank straightens up with some effort; he wants to watch the way his cock glides into Ray's mouth, needs that image burned into his mind. Ray's eyes are closed, his fingers curled against Frank's hips. His mouth is shiny with spit, and Frank pulls his cock out just to see how red his lips are. Frank's cock twitches at the sight.  “Fuck, Ray.”

    Ray sticks his tongue out and laps at the head of Frank's cock. “Please,” he says, voice wrecked. He leans forward and wraps his mouth around Frank again.

    “He wants you to come in his mouth,” Gerard says. Frank glances up at him briefly, but returns his attention back to Ray when he starts moving again.

    “He's wanted you to for a while,” Mikey adds. “But our boy's too shy to ask. Funny thing for a cumslut to be shy.” Ray whines.

    Frank is overwhelmed. The way Gerard and Mikey are dirty talking him, the wet warmth around his cock, the way Ray is blushing and looking up at Frank through his thick eyelashes. Frank whines, fucks into Ray's mouth a few more times, then groans and comes down Ray’s throat.

    Ray swallows around Frank's cock. Then he keeps swallowing, until Frank is propped up against the wall and shaking from the overstimulation. “Ray, fuck,” Frank whines, tilting his head back against the wall. He’s _shaking,_ bucking his hips between the wall and Ray's mouth, can't decide if he wants moremoremore or for it to stop completely. He whining at a higher pitch than he knew he was capable of making.

    “Ray, that's enough,” Mikey says. Ray whines but obeys. There's a wet noise as he pulls off Frank's cock, and Frank slumps against the wall, shivering, as he comes down from that high. Ray carefully tucks him back into his pants and does them up again. He props his head up on Frank's hip and pants heavily.

    Mikey steps away from Gerard and comes over to ray. “C'mon, Ray,” he says, hooking a hand under Ray's arm. He pulls, helping Ray up off the floor. When they're both standing, Mikey cups Ray's jaw in his hands and wipes at the corners of his mouth with both thumbs “Let's get you cleaned up.” He motions for Gerard to follow, and he comes immediately. Frank startles when Mikey touches the inside of his arm and beckons him to follow as well.

    Mikey walks them all to the bathroom attached to Ray's bedroom and sits him down on the closed toilet. “Get me a rag,” he says. Gerard opens the cabinet hanging on the wall and pulls one out, hands it over to Mikey who runs it under warm water then rings it out. It's oddly intimate, the four of them in this bathroom built for one. Mikey crouches down and runs the rag over Ray’s face and neck, slow, gentle circles.

    Frank is startled when Gerard rests his chin on his shoulder. “He needs this,” Gerard says softly, nods toward where Mikey is treating Ray like the most delicate of porcelain dolls. “Needs to be taken care of sometimes.”

    “Yeah,” Frank agrees, just as quietly. He feels Gerard smile against him. Mikey is humming while he works, pressing small kisses to Ray's skin occasionally. “I get that.”

\----

    The pizza is cold and the beer is warm when they finally get back to it. Ray is dressed in pajama pants and an old, soft T-shirt. His hair is washed (Gerard's handiwork) and he looks more human and less like an advanced sex doll than he did earlier. Frank doesn't know which one he prefers.

    Mikey moves the drinks back into the fridge, and they all microwave slices of pizza for themselves. There's not a lot of talking. When they file into the living room, Ray sits in the middle seat of the couch that's been cleaned off since Frank was last here. Mikey settles on his right hand side, and Gerard settles on the floor, leaned back against his calves. Frank thinks the message is clear, and he sinks down next to Ray's left side. Mikey grabs the television remote, and Ray shifts, settles with his head against Frank's shoulder. Frank lifts his arm so that Ray can fit better.

    Mikey and Gerard start discussing what to watch, but Frank tunes them out. He doesn't have much of an opinion, and Ray smells nice. The skin of his upper arm is soft where frank runs his fingers over it. He looks down and notices that Ray's staring at him.

    “This doesn't have to change anything,” Ray says quietly, fingers drumming on Frank's chest.

    “Yeah, I know,” Frank replies. He tilts his head and rests it against Ray's hair. “I think I might want it to, though."

    

    

 

    


End file.
